Matches To Paper Dolls
by CurbItKirby
Summary: Peter and Marcy struggle to come to terms with their domestic life while the Alpha Pack looms in the background. Sequel to Habits, third in the Rabid Animals series. Peter/OFC


**A/N: Okay, for the last several days, I've received a couple emails and messages asking about when this story would be up. Well, it was a long time coming, but here it is. I hope it lives up to the hype you've built up in your heads. I just want to give two warnings for this fic; 1) we will be delving deeper into Marcy's very traumatic past in this story, so the odd chapter will have trigger warnings. 2) I may not be able to update this fic frequently, but I'll try my best. Okay, hope you all enjoy it.**

For Peter, time crept slowly without Marcella around.

Perhaps it was the lack of (meaningful) sex, or lack of someone who appreciated his wit, or lack of someone to bitch to and/or about, but the time he spent helping Derek and Isaac (and occasionally Stiles) look for Erica and Boyd was incredibly tedious. Get up, sniff around the woods, pretend to care about two kids he had never met and would most likely never meet, come up empty handed, feign disappointment.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The only thing he had to look forward to, beyond the nude photos Marcy was so fond of sending him and the odd Skype conversation that almost always ended in a joint masturbation session, was the fact that everyone around him seemed just as miserable.

Peter always revelled in others' misery.

"Ugh."

Peter didn't look up from the map in his hands as Stiles drummed his fingers idly on the steering wheel.

The skinny teens leg bounced with agitation. Huffing, Stiles leaned forward to peer out the windshield. "What is taking them so long?"

"The Reserve's a big place." The man sniffed, enjoying the boy's annoyance. He could have done without the teenage hormones and abundance of body spray, but it was better than being stuck with Isaac. "They're just being thorough."

Stiles rolled his eyes at the nonchalance. "You know this would probably go a lot faster if you got out there and helped them instead of sitting around pretending to read that thing."

"My senses aren't up to par yet," The man lied, still not bothering to so much as glance in the teenager's direction. Absently continuing his game of Centipede, he asked, "Why are you here again?"

"Because no one else wants to deal with you and I got stuck on babysitting duty." Sighing for what had to be the fifth time in less than twenty minutes, Stiles reached into his back pocket and pulled out his cell phone. With a quiet curse, he dropped the phone into his lap and held out his hand expectantly.

Peter arched a brow at the boy's twiddling, restless fingers. "What?"

"Your phone. Give it to me. I was supposed to meet Scott an hour ago and I can't sit around waiting for them to turn up."

Absently closing his game, the former Alpha licked his teeth as the boudoir shot he had taken of Marcy the morning she left filled his background. "So you're calling Scott to cancel?"

"What? No! I'm calling Derek to come pick your zombie ass up!"

"Hurtful," The man replied tersely, but handed over his cell phone regardless.

Stiles let out an approving hum and swiped the phone button at the bottom of his screen. "Elle Corance... _nice_."

Peter visibly stiffened in the passenger seat. Turning to look at the boy for the first time since they parked, he watched as Stiles typed in his nephew's number. The brat was completely relaxed, not at all phased by the curious glare the man was shooting him. With a hint of placid interest in his voice, Peter arched a brow, "What?"

"Your background," The teen clarified. "She's hot, man, no judgement here." Lifting the phone to his ear, he carried on, completely unaware of how completely and utterly _stunned_ the wolf beside him was, "I haven't seen that pic before though. Is it one of her new ones?"

Forcing back his bafflement (and the flash of somewhat murderous rage he felt at the idea of Stiles _Never Touched A Breast In His Life_ Stilinski knowing more about his mate than he did), Peter blinked. "You could say that."

Stiles went to comment, but thankfully Derek answered.

Once their stupid little conversation was over, Peter was quick to jump back to the topic at hand. He took the phone back from the teen and thumbed back to his home screen. Marcella peered back at him, all brazen eyes and parted lips and for the first time, he was vaguely annoyed that her nipple bars were on full display through the stained button up she wore. "I didn't know her name. I just thought she was…attractive. What's she known for?"

The boy looked at him like he'd just suggested they treat themselves to some frozen yogurt or casual manslaughter. "It's _Elle_ _Corance_."

Peter just stared at him.

"Her sister started the _Guillotine Girls_?" Stiles expanded with enough condescension in his voice to kill a lesser man. When the werewolf only arched a brow, he sighed (a-fucking-gain). "God, I know you were in a coma, but come _on!_ Don't act like porn wasn't the first thing you looked up before you went on that rampage of yours."

Peter's jaw clenched subtly at the word. Around fanged teeth, he repeated, "Porn?"

Stiles totally ignored him. "Their dad's, like, super famous. How do you not know them?!"

"Her dad?" He thought of what little he knew of Damien Corance and the picture Marcy had been sent so many months ago, of him and Logan in front of a large crowd.

"He's the drummer for _the Crudes_? You _have_ to know them. You weren't in a coma in the 80s."

Yes, Peter did know them. In fact, he had been a big fan of them when he was young and going through a rather regretful heavy-metal phase. Nodding, Peter didn't comment on his brief infatuation with eyeliner and hairspray, just repeated, "Guillotine Girls. Elle Corance."

"That's the one," Stiles told him with a hint of urgency. Nodding toward the passenger door, the boy gave his shoulder a push. "Now get the hell out. I've got to vacuum the stench of zombie out of this thing before I meet Scott."

Peter left the Jeep just as Derek and Isaac were coming out of the woods. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he watched as Isaac gave him a wide berth and slid into the car next to the skinny brat who had seen Peter's mate naked, apparently on several occasions.

The driver shot him a dubious glance as his eyes flared an aggravated inhuman blue at the thought, but merely started the Jeep.

As Peter came to a stop beside his nephew, Derek cast him a wry glance. Unsettled by his uncle's tense posture and irritated scent, he asked what was wrong, despite not really caring about the answer.

"I hate him?" The older Hale offered as the beat up blue Jeep pulled away.

His nephew cocked a thick, insolent brow at him. "Isaac?"

"Stiles." Peter bristled. The summer air was hot and humid and he hated it. Absently flapping the neck of his v-neck in hopes of creating a breeze, he huffed. "How come I always get stuck with him?"

"You're the one who keeps saying you want to help." Derek shot him an unimpressed glance and raised his eyebrows (both of them this time). "Kind of like how you made me help you move. With no notice. And no help. At two a.m."

His uncle shrugged. "I didn't want to alert the Alpha pack."

"Two a.m," the younger man repeated, slowly as if to help the words sink in. "With no help. Not even Isaac. Just you and me, hauling boxes in the dead of night."

"It was a bonding experience!"

"It was _not_ a bonding experience."

As the two of them slowly made their way downtown, their bickering shifted to something a bit more amicable. Derek wasn't stupid. He had noticed the shift in his uncle, in how restless and agitated he seemed, and knew the lack of Marcy (or maybe the lack of sex, but he genuinely believed it to be Marcy, no matter what the older man said) had Peter on edge. After the move, he had only gotten worse; Peter hid it well, but not well enough, not from Derek.

A quiet _ping_ interrupted his thoughts. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his uncle slide his phone from his pocket, cock his head, smirk, then let out an amused, if not puzzled chuckle.

Derek glanced in his direction, but didn't pause his stroll. "What?"

"Stiles is sending me porn sites." Peter arched a brow and quickly bookmarked the page.

"What?!"

His uncle ignored the younger man's horror and slipped his phone back in his pocket. "That boy really needs to learn some boundaries."

" _Why…_ " Derek shook his head and rolled his eyes with the force only a Hale could muster. "Never mind, I don't even want to know."

"Good choice."

"When's she due back, anyway?"

"Why?" Peter asked. Arching a brow at him, he smirked humorlessly. "Miss having your punching bag around?"

"Hey! She attacked me last time!"

The Omega let out a chuckle. "Yeah, she's a real monster, trying to protect a toddler and all."

"I apologized for that." The younger Hale slipped off the curb to walk on the side of the road. He slipped his hands in his back pockets. His gaze fell to the road. They were quiet a moment before he confessed, "I think Isaac misses her. They talk on the internet a lot."

His uncle hummed. "It's called Skype."

Derek scoffed. "Whatever."

"She's not going to steal your precious Beta away from you, Der. She's not that heartless. She just likes the kid."

Ignoring the childhood nickname, he focused on the obvious. "Yeah, but why?"

Peter shrugged, not really understanding the appeal himself. "Marcella's always had a soft spot for him."

He didn't mention her protective streak or how Marcy thought of Isaac was too young to be wrapped up in the entire werewolf business; neither would win her any favor with his nephew.

A bit more forcefully, Derek repeated, "When's she coming back?"

"Next week, I think. She's got school, so…" Peter lifted a shoulder. A smile danced in the corner of his mouth, but his tone was cool and even, "Should be any day now."

"Are you going to tell her?" Derek watched him carefully out of his peripheral vision.

Peter pursed his lips and absently rolled his neck. Frankly, he was beginning to get more than a little tired of Derek's fascination with his mating bond, but knew a blunt _no_ would only lead to a lecture from a boy who used to crawl in bed with him after particularly scary episodes of Barney. Sure, Derek had been four at the time, but the comparison still stood in Peter's mind. "Once the Alpha Pack is dealt with. Maybe."

Derek rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Eventually, they came to the large, upscale building Peter was living in and the man bid Derek goodnight before they went their separate ways.

Part of Peter dreaded entering his new apartment. Objectively, there was nothing wrong with it. It was a spacious, two bedroom apartment on the nicer side of downtown. With a fully furnished living area filled with imported antiques, a king size bed and a working oven, it was perfect; for all intensive purposes, anyway.

And Peter fucking hated it. He hated everything about it. He hated how quiet it was, he hated how stale the air always smelt- how _blank_ it always smelt. It smelt like him and him alone. None of Marcy's possessions held even a trace of her after their months apart and all he could ever smell was himself. It made the lavish apartment feel like solitary confinement. It made it feel like the hospital; sterile and void.

Werewolves were pack animals, and while he may tell himself he was above the need for other people, deep down Peter knew better.

True, there had been other women in his life (okay, in his pants), since he and Marcella had parted ways, but he had never taken them to his _bed_. He couldn't stomach it. The idea of catching their scent on something that would be hers, in a place that belonged to her whether she had actually slept there or not, just didn't feel right.

The whole apartment felt like that. Like it was hers more than his, despite the fact that she had never so much as set foot in it. She was the missing piece in the puzzle of his home and Peter hated her for making him feel that way. He hated himself for missing her so much. It was a ache in his chest he hadn't expected, and it bothered him that not only was he aware of it, but _Derek_ was. Derek and Isaac both, it seemed. Being weak alone was frustrating; having others aware of your weakness was another thing entirely.

Jaw tight, he paused outside his door. With a deep inhale through his teeth, he rolled his shoulders and moved to open the door.

His hand froze when he realized it was already open. Taking another deep breath, he came up empty. There was no discernable scent in the air. Nothing definitive anyway.

Eyes glowing, Peter weighed his options. He could storm in and potentially end up getting gutted by a pack of bloodthirsty Alphas. Or he could approach with caution, keep his wits about him. Try to access the situation from the _outside_ , before reaching out to Derek (who would potentially mock him if there turned out to be no threat) if need be. Logically, he knew option _B_ was the sensible one, but the idea of ripping a potential intruder to pieces was incredibly tempting. There was, after all, only one heartbeat inside...and he was certain if it did turn out to be an Alpha, Peter could more than handle himself.

If anything, that could only work out in his favor. An Alpha status would make his life easier. Make Marcy see him as a mate, someone worth keeping indefinitely.

A clawed hand slowly pushed the door open.

Marcy's ears pricked up at the sound.

Frankly, after the first hour of poking around what had to be the single most proteinous apartment she had ever set foot in (which was rather impressive, but not terribly surprising given the owner), Marcy was a bit bored. Sure, it had been kind of fun to go around and subtly tilt every terrible piece of modern art that lined the walls, and _sure_ , it had been rather cathartic to go throw his little black book and carefully claw out the name of every new little _friend_ he had made in the past couple months, but god, how long could it take to _not_ find some teenagers in the woods?

Derek had promised they would all be home before midnight, but as per _fucking_ _usual_ , Derek was wrong. Technically she supposed the blame _could_ fall on Isaac since he was _technically_ where she got that quote from, but eh, there was no fun in hating Isaac. Hating Isaac was like hating...well, a stupid impressionable teenager, and she really just didn't have time for hating _another_ stupid impressionable teenager in her life. Scott and his annoyingly fire happy little human friend were more than enough.

Head cocked, she checked her reflection in the microwave, but didn't move from the open fridge. Just absently primped her perfect curls and licked a hint of currant red lipstick off her teeth before pretending to poke through the fridge's meager contents. A smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth as he stepped into her peripheral vision.

The sight of him set her entire body on fire, not that she let him know it. Marcy kept her features cool and her scent and body language disinterested. Unsurprisingly, he was in a V-neck tee shirt. He had also cut his hair, but she decided to keep her comment on that for later (it would not be kind). Tilting her head, Marcy pursed her lips and leaned back from the fridge **,** making sure to arch her back as she did. "I gotta say, Pete, I expected something a little more…welcoming. For how desperate you seemed to get me in it, this place is sort of..." She rolled her wrist and leaned an elbow against the fridge door as she turned to face him "I don't want to say _gaudy_ , but..."

"You're going to?" He offered, his voice strong despite the catch in his throat. Her hold on him only seemed to tighten as she smiled. Her eyes sparkled. Her whole body relaxed and at ease. At home, despite her criticisms. Once he was certain his legs would hold him, he approached. With his usual nonchalant swagger, Peter swept his gaze over her. He couldn't see much with the door blocking her, just shapely stockinged legs with platform pumps; both black, of course.

Marcy bobbed her shoulders and stepped out from behind the fridge. A crooked grin split her painted lips when his brows rose. Pleased by the effect she had on him, by how his upper lip curled back as his eyes licked at her not quite concealed tattoos and caressed the hint of red lingerie beneath her sheer robe, Macy went on almost innocently, "Well, yeah, I am. It's gaudy, and your taste in furniture sucks, Peter."

He couldn't fight the laugh that left him. He didn't even try to. "First time you see me in four months and you dress up to berate me?"

She held her ( _black_ , her hair was _black_ now, Peter noticed, able to smell the dye even from a few feet away and hating it; hating that it covered the scent that he had pined after for four fucking months) hair back and looked down at her robe. It was a striking shade of burgundy, the same as her lipstick. Had it not been almost completely see through, it may had been modest; hanging around her wrists were dramatic faux fur cuffs, tied at the side to emphasis her figure, trailing down her short legs to touch her shins with that same dark red faux fur hem. She had spent a better part of her day picking out this outfit and she'd be damned if she didn't force him to appreciate it for as long as possible before he ripped it to shreds. "How do you know I'm all dressed up?"

"Marcella, please." He grinned as the sound of her name elected a shudder from her. "We both know you can never resist putting on a show."

As he got closer, Marcy was able to see the light dusting of chest hair on his freckled chest, able to catch his scent; raw lust under expensive aftershave and a hint of summer sweat (with a strange tapered off hint of cheap body spray that lingered in his clothes). Pupils blown, Marcy chuckled as he came to a stop in front of her. Sweetly, she cooed, "Now who did I learn that from?"

Peter shrugged.

The movement was quick and smug and his neck was _amazing_ and she just wanted to sink her teeth into it and lick and suck and _bite_ \- but there would be time for that later.

Peering down at her, he rested his arm on the (still open) fridge door. Purposely taking his time, he let his eyes linger over her. She looked good. Amazing, even, but that was unsurprisingly. What _was_ surprising, however, was that she was in his apartment in the first place.

"How'd you get in here?" He tilted his head, squinted gaze affectionate and sharp enough to cut as he took in her curled (black, black, black, _unnatural_ , his mind chanted) hair and full painted mouth. The shade she had tarted herself up with was familiar, but it took him a moment to place it. His eyes flared inhumanly.

 _Harris_.

She had worn that shade when she went out with _Adrian Harris._

The shrug Marcy offered was both somehow incredibly droll and incredibly fucking rude, in her ( _former_ ) Alpha's mind. "You did a shit job putting that barrier up, Pete." She crossed her arms. Fingers flicking up toward his face, she shook her head and gestured over his (unfairly broad) shoulder. "Seriously, I know we're being all coy and cute, but it was a disgrace and you should be ashamed of yourself."

"Duly noted."

"Good." She nodded and rested her hand just left of his arm. The metal was cool and soothing and it took all her strength to touch him. As her claw cut it's way out of the cuticle of her thumb, the Omega eased her hips a bit closer to him. Not close enough to touch, just enough to draw his attention down to the lovely swells hidden under her sheer robe, just enough to distract him from her fingers as they slowly, anxiously, teased through the hair of his forearm. Slowly she mapped out his arm, his bicep, up to his shoulder. A warm smile spread over her lips as she touched him. It felt so _good_ ; being able to see him in person and not on a screen, being able to taste his scent in the air and hear his heartbeat (steady and strong and it skipped as her thumb stroked over the bridge of muscle where his shoulder met his neck). To feel his pulse under her sharp nails.

Peter was real. He was alive. Undeniably, wonderfully _alive_.

Her gaze left her fingers to meet his gaze.

His skin fucking _burned_ where his mate touched him. The first taste of real intimacy he had experienced in months flooding over him, drowning him, and he hated the sheepishness in her stare. Her hesitancy to give him more because every instinct, every past encounter had taught her that it was a mistake. Caring for him, loving him, being with him was a mistake. It always would be. Both of them knew it, but neither could bear to admit it. Peter felt his hand shake and he quickly tucked his clawed fingers into his palm before nuzzling his cheek against hers.

Her breathy whine earned a growl, and he offered her jaw a sweet, stinging nip. Erasing any doubts she may have had about touching him first, touching him without permission. Before he could speak, before he could tease her, Marcy had thrown her arms around him.

"Don't ask me to go again," the words came out in a broken rush as she clung to him. The warm press of her body against his felt like lightning split between them. Like pure heat and raw energy. The once familiar press of his hips against hers, of his claws digging into her waist making them both lightheaded and shaky. Limbs quivering, she buried her face in his neck. The familiar scent of ash and woodsmoke that lingered in his skin from the fire flooded her senses. Tears pricked at her eyes as he hushed her softly. As he kissed her cheeks and held her curls between clawed fingers. Fangs pressing against her bottom lip, she choked on her words. "Please don't make me go again, Peter."

The Hale cradled the back of her head tenderly. Eyes closing he kissed her cheek, her jaw, her brow, before nosing her temple. She smelt like home, and he wasn't about to lose that. "I won't. Never again."

Marcy sobbed. Burying her human fingers into his arms, she slumped against him. A blush crossed her cheeks. She felt stupid and childish in her high heels, in a kitchen that didn't belong to her, with a man about as trustworthy as a snake treating her like she was glass.

She mewed as he pulled back.

Glowing blue eyes greeted her, and she answered in kind. Her yellow gaze earning a small, pleased smile from the corner of his mouth. Warmth filled him at the tiny smirk she offered in reply. Unable to help himself, he trailed his claws tenderly over her cheek. He thumbed her jaw, touched the precious expanse of her neck. Her eyes fluttered. As Peter stroked the delicate skin, a quiet sound slipped from her. Something between a contented sigh and a growl so soft it may as well have been a purr.

Her eye peeked open. With a husky laugh, Marcy brought her hand up to cup Peter's face. Stroking his ( _healed_ , her mind reminded her, she had to be gentle with the skin because it was still new, still fresh, compared to how thick and steadfast his burns had been) cheek, she pressed her thumb stubbornly against his bottom lip as he rested his brow against hers.

"What?" She cooed, tilting her head as another teasing smile crossed her lips. "You thought we were gonna just fall back into bed?"

"Well, _yeah_." Peter beamed at her giggle and offered her wrist a squeeze. He went to go around her thumb to kiss her, but she held firm.

"Nuh-uh. You gotta earn it." Marcella bit her lip and prayed to god her lipstick stayed in place. It did, or at least she assumed it had, given how her lover's gaze glowed and his hips nudged tighter against hers. Ignoring the sharp press of his erection against her stomach, the woman arched a brow and demanded, "Say you missed me."

He snickered. "I missed you."

The petite woman nodded. Her arms coiled around his neck, she pulled him closer. Blue eyes skipping over his features, she pursed her lips. Squinting at him, she went on, "Say you love me?"

"I love you."

Doubt ebbed into her gaze, and into her voice, "Do you mean it?"

Peter nodded. He kissed her softly. She felt just the same; that sweet smell of arousal and passion so strong he could taste it in the air. Nudging her nose with his own, he murmured, "Absolutely."

As he nestled his face into her neck, Marcella offered him the four quiet words he had been dying to hear;

"I missed you, Peter."

A bit desperately, he nodded. Unable to remember the last time someone had said that to him, the last time someone had even felt the sentiment besides the woman in his arms, Peter felt his whole body tighten as she continued.

"I love you."

"You mean it?" He muttered against her shoulder.

She nodded firmly and took his face in her hands. Kissing him soundly, she barely resisted the warm broach of his tongue as his hands pawed at her ass. "Hey."

"What now?" Peter pouted.

Marcella smirked. "Aren't you going to show me the bedroom, Pete?" 

"Damn right I am," He growled, shucking the robe off his lover's shoulders and taking her into his arms.

His mouth was on hers before the sheer material hit the floor.


End file.
